Page 211 of Dragon Slayer

He threw up his arms, and Constantine’s horse half-reared, eyes rolling. Constantine wrestled him back down with a few tugs of the reins, and turned his head aside. The emperor’s face was red and slick with sweat, his eyes nearly as wild as those of his horse. He was terrified, but he wasn’t fleeing, even though he should have been.

“Val–” he started.

“Go!” Val shouted at him. “Go! The city is all but fallen. You have to run!”

A sword cleaved right through Val’s projection, turning his shoulder, and chest, and hip to smoke. The man who’d done it shouted, and then lunged forward through him.

“Constantine!” Val screamed. “Run! Run, please!”

Constantine turned his attention to his attacker, wheeling his horse, bringing his sword down in a swift, vicious arc. The Ottoman ducked the first blow, and struck next at the horse. The stallion danced sideways, well-trained despite its fear, and Constantine’s next blow hit home, carving a line of blood down the man’s neck, nearly taking his head off. He fell, gurgling, blood fountaining from his open vein and from his mouth.

The emperor’s personal guards rushed forward, blades drawn, and engaged with the enemy. They were vastly outnumbered; they would all be slain. But they could buy their lord some time –if he would run.

Val got closer. He felt his pulse in his throat, and pain at his back, his ribs; someone was kicking at his body, it must be.

“Constantine–” he started again, a catch in his voice.

Constantine looked down at him, and for a moment, a stolen moment between just the two of them, as men screamed, and crossed swords, and died around them, his face softened. His mouth turned down at the corners with sadness.

“Valerian,” he said, “I can’t abandon my people, son. I won’t. If my city falls, I shall fall with it, but I mean to fight until that happens.”

“But –please.” Val’s vision blurred as his eyes filled with tears. He felt a sharp pain in his ribs, and his breath caught. “Constantine, please, run away.Run to me, and I can save you. I canturnyou, I can–”

“No, no,” he said, gently. “I love you as if you were my own, you know that. But what you want isn’t possible. My place is here.”

“But–”

“Look after yourself, Val. I have every faith that you were born for great things.” And so, saying, the emperor turned his horse, and re-entered the fray.

Val went to his knees, boneless, weak. He felt the pull of his body – someone was hurting him, and bound in silver, already weak, he couldn’t maintain the projection for much longer.

“But, please…” he whispered, tears spilling over, pouring down his cheeks. “Please…”

Constantine swung with wicked precision, hacking and slicing from his saddle. But Ottomans poured in through the gap in the wall, wave upon wave, trampling one another in their haste, screaming like banshees. There were too many. They swarmed the emperor; hamstrung his horse and toppled him from the saddle.

Val watched it all in helpless horror, sobbing, gasping for breath. He saw polished armor, a flash of gold cloak, the glimmer of a sword.

“Please,” he said again, an airless whisper.

And then everything spun, and he slammed back into his body, just as someone kicked him viciously in the ribs.

He opened his eyes to find that he lay on his side, curled into himself, sobbing brokenly, aching in a dozen places as if he’d been beaten – because he had been. As he twisted his head and glanced up, he saw three janissaries swarm forward, shouting brusque orders, pushing off the seven regular foot soldiers who’d been laying into him.

“Leave off! He belongs to the sultan, you idiot!” one of them shouted.

The soldiers scattered.

“Your grace,” another janissary said, and dropped to a crouch beside Val’s head. “Here, I’ll help you up. Are you hurt?”

Val ignored him. The sobs wracked his body, and no amount of physical pain, no boot strikes in yesterday’s bruises, could rival the pain that howled inside his head. He kept his eyes open until they stung, not wanting to blink, knowing that if he did, he’d see the white stallion falling with a scream, see Constantine toppling into the hands of men with swords.

“Your grace? Your grace!”

Hands under his arms, fingers digging in, lifting him up. His head lolled. He couldn’t breathe. Tears and mucus clogged his sinuses.

He was propped up on his knees amidst cursing and grumbling.

“Insane,” someone muttered.

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